Walking home

How cold and grey, clinging like a static charge
the mist it swirls and clears.
Muffles every sound, as my pace, and heartbeat
quicken. Pause, and for a second;  
realise, that somehow I have a foreboding; enveloping a deep
suspicion.
My hands feel cold like clammy seaweed
dragged by the tide, and stranded on the shore.
My mind replays each horror film, that I have seen before.
Re-live every stricken victim's nightmare
the dark intent behind a mask.  
The evils served upon young flesh
and just how close is that impending step.
 
Echo's bouncing off the alley walls
trapped in my fear, to turn or flee
to face the rape or go on bended knee
the  broken stalactites of realisation shearing,  
in caverns ever deeper, quivering subconsciously.
In that brush. it hangs just like graffiti
vivid scrawled for all to see
Shaking like a setting jelly,
it's imprint ever stay with me,
stamped with all my unguarded vulnerability